The Wall

After a while, the Wall becomes something else.

[...]

The dying wilted leaves of what once was a burning gold and red crunch underfoot in a heap of lifeless brown, the winding path familiar, each footstep sure and certain, the mind elsewhere in a land of thoughts, hands though cold are ungloved, arms swinging as the meandering path unfolds.

The path is so familiar that all that passes is merely a blur - the streets, the gardens, the people walking by, the shouts of glee as children play, it passes on by as the feet walk on, defiant and unwavering in their journey, until;

The mind registers something beyond the blur that is the time going by, a striking red amongst the blue and greens, the feet hesitate, unsure, this is not the usual way, and realization hits as the feet stop; the land of abstract thoughts bursts into a tiny thousand pieces and the mind is forced into reality, as the haze slows from a whizzing blur into a very real, tangible, reality.

Here, the winds do not blow, here, the winds do not whisper, and yet, between the din of nothing and everything, one small voice breaks through all.

Here stands a red brick wall, worn and old and yet striking and glorious, sturdy in its large frame, here, the winds stop, here, there is something different.

A voice is heard. Soft whispers, speaking, talking, some mumblings about their life, some ramblings about something else.

The feet have stopped from their usual way, the winds are obedient and do not blow, the mind thinks, and as the voice continues on, together the mind and feet lean themselves against the red brick wall, the person leans themselves against the red brick wall, the courier bag falling to the side, and the voice continues on.

Many minutes pass by; the voice tells a story to the wall, something about sadness, something about joy, something about grief and everything in between, the person suspects the voice is crying, and the person is silent, lost in thought, with their back pressed against the brick, eyes cast towards the sky, as the voice is wracked with quiet sobs.

The person rises, back and shoulders sore from leaning so long on the cold unforgiving wall, the jacket dusted with light red, pausing; a moment of thought as the bag is lifted onto the shoulder, grimacing, having forgotten the heavy weight, a pause, wondering, hesitating, lifts one ungloved hand, pressing against the cold, rough, red brick, reach the voice beyond this wall and whispers,

"It's okay."

The voice - the quiet sobs - stops in stunned silence.

[...]

After a while, the Wall becomes something else.

A listener, a kind soul, a window, a place where the mask is dropped and lays abandoned on the ground...